Sam and the French Kiss
by Young Phantom
Summary: Sam is not happy when her father decides to send her to a boarding school in Paris for her senior year. But Sam meets some cool new people, including the handsome Danny Fenton, who quickly becomes her best friend. Unfortunately he's taken-and Sam might be, too. He's just her friend, right? DxS. Review for faster updates. chpt. 5 updated at the end.
1. Chapter 1

**I know, I shouldn't be starting a new story when I still have 2 on going ones, but I **_**really**_** wanna write this one! I'm really excited about this one and I hope you all love it!**

I know very little about France. I'm a pure blood American, born and raised in Amity Park. I'm a senior in high school and tomorrow is my first day of school. One small change though, I'll be going to school in Paris.

That's right. Paris. As in France. It was my dad's idea. He and my mom broke it off six months after my little brother was born. Now he's a somewhat famous author of these novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fall in Love and then contracts Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.

I'm serious.

And it's totally depressing, but the ladies eat it up. They love my father's books and his V-neck sweaters and blond Ken Barbie hair. They've turned him into a bestseller and a total dick.

But the real money comes from the movies. Two of his books have already been turned to movies and three are in production. And somehow the extra cash and fame have given him a crazy idea that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I don't understand why he couldn't send me to Ireland or Canada or anywhere else where English is their native language. The only French word I know is _oui_, which means "yes", and only recently did I learn it's spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.

Well, on the bright side the people at my new school at least speak English. I'll be going to School of America in Paris. Basically a bunch of American teens stuck in one boarding school. I'm stuck with ninety- nine other students and there are only twenty-five senior students in my entire class. Twenty-four who which already know each other and I'm going to be the only new senior, sticking out like a sore thumb.

At Casper High, my old school, there were about six- hundred kids. At my new school, I'll be studying the same things I was before. Well, almost, I have to take Beginning French.

Oh yea, Beginning French. No doubt with the freshman, I totally rock.

Mom said I need to lose my goth depression aura and look at this as an adventure. But she's not the one leaving her amazing best friend Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at Amity Movie Place. Or Gregor, the fabulous boy at Amity Park Place.

And I can't believe she's taking me away from Sean, my seven year old brother. He's too young to be home alone after school. Without me there, he'll probably get kidnapped by some ghost or the creepy hobo across the street. Or he'll eat something with Red Dye #40 and his throat will swell up and no one will be there to take him to the hospital. He'll die and I probably won't even be allowed to go to the funeral because my life SUCKS!

My dad better not be expecting me to study abroad now for college. I want to go to study film theory in California. I want to be the world's greatest female film critic. One day I'll be invited to every festival, and I'll have major newspaper column and a wicked TV show and a ridiculously popular website. Currently I only have the website, and it's not that popular. Yet.

I just need more time to perfect it, that's all.

"Sam, it's time."

"What" I glance up from folding my shirts into perfect squares.

Mom stares at me and twiddles the turtle charm on her necklace. My father, flashing a peach polo and white boating shoes, is glazing out my dormitory window. It's late, but across the street some lady belts out something operatic. I can tell that's going to get really annoying really fast.

My parents both need to return to their hotel rooms. They both have early flights tomorrow.

"Oh." I grip the shirt in my hands a little tighter.

Dad steps away from the window, and I'm alarmed to discover his eyes are wet. Something about the idea of my father- even if it's _my father_- on the brink of tears raises a lump in my throat.

"Well Sammy. I guess you're all grown up now"

My body clinches at that horrible nickname. He pulls my stiff limbs into a bear hug. "Take care of yourself. Study hard and make some friends. This will all be worth it, maybe help you with your goth stage. And watch out for pickpockets," he adds. "Sometimes they work in pairs."

I nod into his shoulder, and he releases me. And then he's gone.

My mother lingers behind. "You'll have a wonderful year here," she says. "I just know it, I have a feeling." I bite my lip from saying something sarcastic, and she sweeps me into her arms. "I'll call you the moment I get home," she says.

_Home. _Amity Park isn't my home anymore.

"I love you, Sam"

I am not very emotional, heck, I'm goth. But this is my mom, the one who I talk to and watch old movies with and cry onto. So of course there are some tears leaking from my eyes. "I love you, too. Take care of Sean for me."

"Of course."

Then my mom does something I don't see coming, even after all of the paperwork and plane ticket and presentations. Something that would've happened in a year anyway, when I'm off to college, but no matter how many days or months or years I've yearned for it, I am still not prepared for when it actually happens.

My mom leaves. I am alone

DPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDPDDP

I feel it coming, but I can't stop it.

PANIC.

They left me. My parents actually left me! IN FRANCE!

Any other teenager would be thrilled, but I'm obviously not like other teenagers.

Meanwhile, Paris is oddly quite. Even the hella annoying opera singer has packed up for the night. I _cannot _lose it. These walls are thinner then Band-Aids, so if I break down my neighbors- my new classmates- will hear everything. I can already hear the rumors. _New goth girl cries because she doesn't have her parents to babysit her in Paris. She acts tough, but inside she's just a pansy toddler._

I race to my pedestal sink and splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. Great. I haven't unpacked my towels, and wet clothing's reminds me of those stupid water rides Bridgette and Matt used to drag me to at Amity Water Park where the water is the wrong color and it smells like paint and it has a billion trillion bacterial microbes in it. What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?

What is wrong with me?

How many seventeen- year- olds would kill to leave home? My classmates aren't having any meltdowns. I'm supposed to be _tough, goth, and badass. _That's what Bridgette always said. I collapse face-first into my pillow and sob like a baby.

Someone is knocking on my door.

No. That can't be _my _door.

There it is again!

"Hello?" a girl calls from the hallway. "Hello? Are you ok?"

No, I am certainly _not_ ok. GO AWAY. But she calls again, and I'm forced to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blond with long, tight curls waits on the other side. She's tall and big, but not overweight big, volleyball player big. "Are you ok?" Her voice is gentle. "I'm Meredith; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?"

My running black eyeliner answer her question.

"I cried the first night too." She tilts her head, think for a moment, and then nods. "Come on. _Chocolat chaud."_

"A chocolate show?"

"No" she smiles. "_Chaud. _Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room."

Oh.

Despite my pride, I follow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She's wearing rings on all five fingers. "Don't forget you're key. The doors automatically lock behind you."

"I know." And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I felt so much like Zoey from _Zoey 101._

We enter her room. I gasp. It's the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini- desk, mini- dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini- toilet, those are shared down the hall for no one's convenience.) But…unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of her wall and ceiling was covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and colorful flyers that kinda hurt my eyes, written in French.

"How long have you _been_ here?"

She hands me a tissue and I blow my nose and whip my face. "I arrived yesterday. This is my forth year here, so I didn't have to go to the seminar. I flew in alone, so I've just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up." She looks around, her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. "Not bad, eh? White walls just aren't my thing."

I circle her room, examining everything. I quickly discover that most of the faces are the same five people: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and some soccer player guy I didn't know.

"The Beatles are all I listen to. My friends tease me, but-"

"Who's this?" I point to Soccer Guy. He's wearing red and white, and he's all dark eyebrows and dark hair. Quite good-looking, actually.

"Cesc Fabregas. God, he's the most incredible passer. Plays for Arsenal. The English football club? No?"

I shake my head, I don't keep up with sports. Sure, I'm good at them, but that's a useless talent that God should've given to someone who cares. "Nice legs, though."

"I know, right?" You could hammer a nail with those thighs."

While Meredith brews _chocolat chaud_ on her hot plat, I learn she's also a senior, and that she only plays soccer during the summer because our school doesn't have a program, but she used to rank All-Star in Massachusetts. That's where she's from, Boston. And she reminds me to call it "football" here, which- when I think about it- really does make more sense. And she doesn't seem to mind when I drown her with questions or paw through her things.

I look around her room again. "I wish I could have a room like this." I love it, but I'm to much of a neat freak to have something like it for myself. I need clean walls and a clean desktop and everything put away in its right place at all times.

Meredith looks pleased with the compliment.

"Are these your friends?" I point to a picture tucked in her mirror. It's gray and shadowy and printed on think, glossy paper. Clearly the product of a school photography class. Four people stand before a giant hollow cube, and the abundance of stylish black clothing and deliberately mussed hair reveals. Meredith belongs to the resident art clique. For some reason, I'm surprised. I know her room is artsy, and she has all of those rings and her finger and in her nose, but the rest is clean-cut- lilac sweater, pressed out jeans, soft voice. Then there's the soccer thing, but she's not a tomboy either.

She breaks into a wide smile, and her nose ring winks. "Yeah. Ellie took that at La Defense. That's Tucker and Danny and me and Valerie. You'll meet them tomorrow at breakfast. Well, everyone but Ellie, she graduated last year."

The pit of my stomach begins to unclench. Was that an invitation to sit with her?

"But I'm sure you'll meet her soon enough, because she's dating Danny. She's at Parsons Paris now for photography."

I've never heard of it, but I nod as if I've considered going there myself.

"She's really talented." The edge of her voice suggests differently, but I don't push it. "Tucker and Valerie are dating, too" she adds.

Ah. Meredith must be single. 5th wheel much?

Sadly, I can relate. Back home I'd dated my friend Matt for five months. He was tall-ish and funny-ish and had decent-ish hair. It was one of those "since on one better is around, do you wanna make out?" situation. All we ever did was kiss, and even that wasn't so great. Too much spit. I always had to wipe my chin off.

We broke up after I learned about Paris, but it wasn't a big deal. Now he's going out with Cherrie Milliken, who is in chorus and has shiny shampoo-commercial hair. It doesn't really bother me.

Not really.

Besides, the breakup freed me to lust after Gregor, my coworker at the movie theater. Not that I didn't lust over him when I was taken, but still. I did make me feel bad, I'm not that cold hearted. And things were starting to happen between Gregor and me-they really were- when summer ended. But Matt is the only guy I've ever dated, and he barley counts.

Meredith's phone starts ringing the few bars of "Strawberry Field Forever." She rolls her eyes and answers. "Mom, it's midnight here. Six-hour time difference, remember?"

Midnight, already? I glance at her alarm clock to see she's right. I set my long-empty mug of _chocolat chaud _on her dresser. "I should get going," I whisper. "Sorry I stayed so long."

"Hold on a sec." she covers the mouthpiece. "It was nice meeting you. See you at breakfast?"

"Yeah. See ya." I try to say this casually, but I'm so thrilled that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wall.

Whoops. Not a wall. A boy.

"Oof" He staggers backwards.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there."

He shakes his head, a little dazed. This first thing I notice is his hair- it's the first thing I notice about everyone. It's jet black, like mine, and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. It's I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-really-do hair.

Beautiful hair.

"It's okay, I didn't see you either. Are you ok?"

Oh my. His has ocean blue eyes.

"Err. Does Mer live here?"

Seriously, those things are piercing through my dark heart.

The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big, curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf.

"I'm sorry." He takes the smallest step away from me. "You were going to bed."

"Yes! Meredith lives there. I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. Play it cool, Manson. "I'm Sam, I'm new."

The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely- straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for a smile like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.

"Daniel," he says. "I live one floor up."

"I live there." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: something about him seems familiar.

He knocks on Meredith's door. "Well. I'll see you around then, Sam."

My heart _thump thump thump _in my chest.

Meredith opens her door. "Danny!" she shrieks. She's still on the phone. They laugh and hug and talk over each other. "Come in! How was your flight? When'd you get here? Have you seen Tucker? Mom, I've gotta go."

Meredith's phone and door snap shut simultaneously.

I fumble with the key on my necklace. Two girls in matching pink bathrobes strut behind me, giggling and gossiping. A crowd of guys across the hall snicker and catcall. Meredith and her friend laugh through the thin walls. My heart sinks, and my stomach tightens back up.

I'm still the new girl. I'm still alone.

**Review Please! I don't own Danny Phantom or Anna and the French Kiss.**


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, I consider stopping by Meredith's, but I chicken out and walk to breakfast alone. At least I know where the cafeteria is (Day Two: Life Skills Seminars). I double-check for my meal card and pop open my Tim Burton's themed umbrella. It's drizzling. The weather doesn't give a crap that it's my first day of school.

I cross the road with a group of chatting students. They don't see me, but together we dodge the puddles. An automobile, small enough to be one of my brother's toys, whizzes past and sprays a girl in glasses. She swears, and her friends tease her.

I drop behind.

The city is pearl gray. The overcast sky and the gray buildings emit the same cold elegance, but ahead of me, the Pantheon shimmers. Its massive dome and impressive columns rise up to crown the top of the neighborhood. Every time I see it, it's difficult to pull away. It's as if it were stolen from ancient Rome or, at the very least, Capitol Hill. Nothing I should be able to view from a classroom window.

I don t know its purpose, but I assume someone will tell me soon.

My new neighborhood is the Latin Quarter, or the fifth arrondissement. According to my pocket dictionary, that means district, and the buildings in my arrondissement blend one into another, curving around corners with the sumptuousness of wedding cakes. The sidewalks are crowded with students and tourists, and they're lined with identical benches and ornate lampposts, bushy trees ringed in metal grates, Gothic cathedrals and tiny _creperies_, postcard racks, and curlicue wrought iron balconies.

If this were a vacation, I'm sure I'd be charmed. I'd buy an Eiffel Tower key chain, take pictures of the cobblestones, and order a platter of escargot. But I'm not on vacation. I am here to live, and I feel small.

The School of America s main building is only a two-minute walk from Residence Lambert, the junior and senior dormitory. The entrance is through a grand archway, set back in a courtyard with manicured trees. Geraniums and ivy trail down from window boxes on each floor, and majestic lion s heads are carved into the center of the dark green doors, which are three times my height. On either side of the doors hangs a red, white, and blue flag one American, the other French.

It looks like a film set. A Little Princess, if it took place in Paris. How can such a school really exist? And how is it possible that I'm enrolled? My father is insane to a little goth with a huge attitude problem like me belongs here. I'm struggling to close my umbrella and nudge open one of the heavy wooden doors with my butt, when a preppy guy with faux-surfer hair barges past. He smacks into my umbrella and then shoots me the stink-eye as if: (1) it's my fault he has the patience of a toddler and (2) he wasn't t already soaked from the rain.

Two-point deduction for Paris. Suck on that, Preppy Guy. The ceiling on the first floor is impossibly high, dripping with chandeliers and frescoed with flirting nymphs and lusting satyrs. It smells faintly of orange cleaning products and dry-erase markers. I follow the squeak of rubber soles toward the cafeteria. Beneath our feet is a marbled mosaic of interlocking sparrows. Mounted on the wall, at the far end of the hall, is a gilded clock that s chiming the hour. The whole school is as intimidating as it is impressive. It should be reserved for students with personal bodyguards and Shetland ponies, not someone who buys the majority of her wardrobe at Target and Hot Topic.

Even though I saw it on the school tour, the cafeteria stops me dead. I used to eat lunch in a converted gymnasium that reeked of bleach and jockstraps. It had long tables with preattached benches, and paper cups and plastic hairnetted ladies who ran the cash registers served frozen pizza and frozen fries and frozen nuggets, and the soda fountains and vending machines provided the rest of my so-called nourishment.

But this. This could be a restaurant.

Unlike the historic opulence of the hall, the cafeteria is sleek and modern. It s packed with round birch tables and plants in hanging baskets. The walls are tangerine and lime, and there s a dapper Frenchman in a white chef s hat serving a variety of food that looks suspiciously fresh. There are several cases of bottled drinks, but instead of high-sugar, high-caf colas, they're filled with juice and a dozen types of mineral water. There's even a table set up for coffee. Coffee. I know some Starbucks-starved students at Casper High who'd kill for in-school coffee. The chairs are already filled with people gossiping with their friends over the shouting of the chefs and the clattering of the dishes (real china, not plastic). I stall in the doorway. Students brush past me, spiraling out in all directions. My chest squeezes. Should I find a table or should I find breakfast first? And how am I even supposed to order when the menu is in freaking French? I am startled when a voice calls out my name. Oh please oh please oh please . . .

A scan through the crowd reveals a five-ringed hand waving from across the room. Meredith points to an empty chair beside her, and I weave my way there, grateful and almost painfully relieved.

"I thought about knocking on your door so we could walk together, but I didn't t know if you were a late sleeper." Meredith s eyebrows pinch together with worry. "I 'm sorry, I should have knocked. You looked so lost."

"It's alright, thanks for saving me a spot." I set down my stuff and take a seat. There are two other people at the table, from the photograph that was in Meredith's mirror.

"This is Sam, the girl I was telling you about," Meredith says.

A dark skinned boy wearing a red hat and glasses nods a salute to me with his coffee. "Tucker", he says. "And Valerie." He nods to the girl sitting by him, who holds his hand inside the front pocket of his hoodie. Valerie had long brown, curly hair and big brown eyes. She gives me only the barest of acknowledgement.

Whatever.

"Everyone's here besides Danny." Meredith looks around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late."

"Always," Tucker corrects. "Always running late."

"Um, I think I met him last night in the hallway." I cut in.

"Good hair and big, blue eyes?" Meredith asks.

"Sure, I guess." I try to keep my voice casual.

Tucker smirks. "Everyone's in luuuurve with Danny Fenton."

"Oh, shut up." Meredith says.

"I'm most certainly not." Valerie looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend.

As if.

He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it."

"This school has a prom?" I ask.

"Oh God no," Valerie says. "Yeah, Tucker. You and Danny would look really cute in matching tuxes."

"Tails." The voice coming from behind makes me and Meredith jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm going to corsage Steve Carver instead."

"Danny, my man!" Tucker springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug.

"No kiss Tuck? I'm hurt, dude."

"Thought it might wake up the beautiful beast. She doesn't know about us yet."

"Shut up," Valerie says, but she's smiling now.

Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Danny, not Daniel?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Valerie and me. "Sam." He's surprised to see me, and I'm surprised he even remembered my name.

"Nice umbrella could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words have left me. Unfortunately, my stomach spoke for itself. His eyes pop out at the rumble, and I blush with embarrassment.

"That sounds serious. You should probably feed that thing. Unless…" he pretends to examine me, then comes close and whispers "Unless you're one of those girls who never eat. Can't have that here, especially with a carnivore like Tuck around, have to ban you from the table for life."

I'm hell bent on speaking rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order."

"Simple." Tucker says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. Try the sausages, there delicious."

"I don't eat meat; I'm an ultra- recyclable vegetarian. I meant the menu." I gesture towards the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite, cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white. In French. "Not exactly my first language."

"You don't speak French?" Meredith asks.

"YOU DON'T EAT MEAT!" Tucker jumps out of his chair and starts shaking me. "HOW DO YOU SURVIVE!?"

"Um, easily, actually, you don't need meat, that's fat." I push him away from me.

"B-b-but, you need meat! It's on the food pyramid!"

"There's pills you can take dude." I roll my eyes and address Meredith. "And I've taken Spanish for three years, but that's' not much help. I never really thought I'd ever move to Paris."

"It's ok." Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't know French."

"But most do and most also eat _meat!_" Tucker adds. I glare at him for the meat comment.

"But most of them don't speak it very well." Valerie looks pointedly at him.

"You'll learn the language of food first. The language of love." Tucker rubs his belly like a skinny Buddha. "_Oeuf.,_Egg. _Pomme, _Apple. _Viande, MEAT!"_

"Dude, let the meat thing go, not everyone can scarf down 50 hot dogs in less than an hour and still have room for ribs." Danny says.

"I hate off my iron stomach." Tucker holds his stomach as if to defend it.

"Well, until I learn?" I say, glancing at the board, which is still in French.

"Right." Danny pushes back his chair. "Come on, I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice all the girls swooning over Danny as we pass by. A brunette Latino with a teeny tank top coos as soon as we step in line. "_Hey,_ Danny. How was your summer?"

"Hello Paulina. Fine."

"Did you stay _here_, or did you go back home?" She leans over her friend, a blond with an orange tank, and positions herself for maximum cleavage exposure. Slut.

"I stayed with my mom in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?" He asked politely, but I'm pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.

Paulina flips her hair, but all I can see is Cherrie Milliken, Matt's girlfriend. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and twirl it around her finger. Bridgette thinks she practices standing in front of a fan, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she's too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.

"It was _amazing, fabulous, and spontaneous._" Flip, goes her hair. "I went to _Spain _for a month at mi padre summer house for a month, then spent the rest in Manhattan."

Oh _gosh. _Every _sentence _she says has a _word _that's _emphasized. _I snort to keep from laughing, and Danny gets a strange coughing fit.

"But I _missed _you. Didn't you get my _e-mails_?"

Oh I can see them now, to Beautiful Hallway Boy of Perfection, from Slutty Cleavage Home-Wrecker.

"Um, no, you must have the wrong address. Hey." He nudges me. "It's almost our turn." He turns away from Paulina, much to her dismay as she and her friend exchange frowns. "Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast has to be the simplest of the three meals, in my opinion, but what do I know. Breakfast here consists primarily of breads, meaning no scrambled eggs, and no sausages, not that it affects you."

"That it doesn't."

He smiles, "Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen carefully and repeat after me. _Granola._" I narrow my eyes as he widens his mock innocence. "Means 'granola' you see, and this one? _Yaourt?"_

"Oh, I dunno, let me take ten minutes of our lives to think." I put my finger on my chin and tap it, looking as though I'm thinking hard. He starts laughing.

"Ah, is it yogurt!" sarcasm drips from my mouth.

"You are correct, your prize, little lady, is a whole meal!" we both are laughing now.

The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre, I'm a little distracted by the Blue Eyed Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly. "Yogurt with granola and honey, or pear on brioche?"

What the heck is brioche? "Yogurt, I guess."

He places our order in perfect French. Well, that's what it sounds like to my virgin ears anyway. Chef Pierre loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.

"_Meric. _Monsieur Boutin."

I grab put trays. "No Pop-Tarts? No Cocoa Puffs? Dude, I thought this was a school for _Americans_. I understand we're in France and we should eat some of their foods, but I'm totally offended right now."

"Well you do have to be American to attend SOAP, but I'm sad to say they just serve us the French food, little American food, and rarely even French fries or French toast."

"Soap?"

"School of America in Paris," he explains. "SOAP"

Great. My father sent me here to be cleaned.

We get in line to pay, and I'm surprised by how organized things are. No cutting or rough-housing like at my old school, everyone here waits their turn. I turn just in time to see Danny's eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking _me _out. He doesn't seem to realize I've caught him.

"So, what's your real name? Last night it was Daniel-"I stated.

"Daniel Fenton is my full name, Danny's a nickname."

"Daniel is nice, why don't people call you that?"

"Oh, Daniel is nice. How generous of you,"

I'm about to tease him when I remember something: _He has a girlfriend. _

I hand the meal card to the man behind the register. Like Monsieur Boutin, he wears a pressed white uniform and starched hat. He also has a handlebar mustache. Huh, didn't know they had those here. He swipes the card and hands it back with a quick _merci._

Thanks you. Another word I already new, awesome.

On the way back to the table, Amanda watches Danny from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I'm not surprised when she glares at me either, considering I'm walking with Danny, and she isn't. Danny's talking about classes- what to expect the first day, who teachers are- but I'm not really listening. All I know is his perfect smile and blue eyes.

I'm just as big a fool as the rest of them.


	3. Chapter 3

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The M-through-S line moves pretty slow. The guy ahead of me is arguing with the guidance counselor. I glance at the G- through- L line, and see Meredith (Isaac) and Valerie (Gray) have already received their class schedules and exchanged them for comparison.

"But I didn't ask for theater, I asked for conditioning."

The squat counselor is patient. "I know, but conditioning didn't fit with your schedule, and your alternate did. Maybe you can take conditioning next-"

"My _alternate _was advanced physical training."

Hold the phone. My attention snaps back. Can they do that? Put us in class we didn't ask for? I will die-DIE- if I have to take gym again.

"Actually, Kwan." The counselor sifts through her papers. "You neglected to fill out your alternate form, so we had to select the class for you. But I think you'll find-"

The angry boy snatches his schedule from her hands and stalks off. Damn, it's not like it's her fault you douche. I step forward and say my name as kindly as possible to make up for the jerk before me. She gives me a dimple smile back. "I remember you sweetie. Have a good first day." And she hands me a half sheet of yellow paper.

I hold my breath while I scan it. Phew. No surprise. Senior English, calculus, beginning French, physics, European history, and something dubiously called "La Vie."

When I registered, the counselor described "Life" as a senior-only class, similar to a study hall but with occasional guest speakers who will lecture us about balancing checkbooks and renting apartments and baking quiches or whatever. I'm just relieved Mom let me take it. One of the decent things about this school is that math, science, and history aren't required for seniors. Unfortunately, Mom is a purist and refused to let me graduate without another year of all three. "You'll never get into the right college if you take ceramics," she warned, frowning over my orientation packet.

Thanks, Mom. Send me away for some culture in a city known for its art and make me suffer through another math class. I shuffle toward Meredith and Valerie, feeling like the third wheel but praying for some shared classes. I'm in luck. "Three with me and four with Val!" Meredith beams and hands back my schedule. Her rainbow-colored plastic rings click against each other

They gossip about people I don't know, and my mind wanders to the other side of the courtyard, where Danny waits with Tucker in A-through-F. I wonder if I have any classes with him.

I mean, _them_. Classes with them.

The rain has stopped, and Tucker kicks a puddle in Danny's direction. Danny laughs and says something that makes them both laugh even harder.

"Jeez, stare much?"

"What?" I jerk my head back, but Valerie's not talking to me. She's shaking her head at Meredith, who looks as sheepish as I feel.

"You're burning holes into Danny's head. It's not attractive."

"Shut up." But Meredith smiles at me and shrugs.

Well. That settles that. As if I needed another reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is officially off-limits. "Don't say anything to him," she says. "Please."

"Of course," I say.

"Because we're obviously just friends."

"Obviously."

We mill around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a ballerina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pulled into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overall effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she's from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. "Welcome to another exciting year at the School of America in Paris. I'm pleased to see so many familiar faces, and I'm even happier to see the new ones."

Apparently school speeches are one thing France can't improve, they suck internationally and world-wide.

"To the students who attended last year, I invite you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman class and to the new upperclassmen, as well."

A smattering of polite applause. I glance around, and I'm startled to find Danny looking at me. He claps and lifts his hands in my direction. I blush and jerk away.

The head keeps talking. Focus, Sam. Focus. But I feel his stare as if it were the heat of the sun. My skin grows moist with sweat. I slide underneath one of the immaculately pruned trees. Why is he staring? Is he still staring? I think he is. Why why why? Is it a good stare or a bad stare or an indifferent stare?

But when I finally look, he's not staring at me at all. He's biting his pinkie nail.

The head wraps up, and Valerie bounds off to join the guys. Meredith leads me inside for English. The professeur hasn't arrived yet, so we choose seats in the back. The classroom is smaller than what I'm used to, and it has dark, gleaming trim and tall windows that look like doors, which pleases me. But the desks are the same, and the whiteboard and the wall-mounted pencil sharpener. I concentrate on these familiar items to ease my nerves.

"You'll like Professeur Cole," Meredith says. "She's hilarious, and she always assigns the best books."

"My dad is a novelist." I blurt this without thinking and immediately regret it and my big mouth.

"Really? Who?"

"Jeremy Ashley." That's his pen name. I guess Manson wasn't romantic enough.

"Who?"

The humiliation factor multiplies. "The Decision? The Entrance? They were made into movies. Forget it, they all have vague names like that—"

She leans forward, excited. "No, my mom loves The Entrance!"

I wrinkle my nose.

"They aren't that bad. I watched The Entrance with her once and totally cried when that girl died of leukemia."

"Who died of leukemia?" Valerie plops her backpack down next to me. Danny trails in behind her and takes the seat in front of Meredith.

"Sam's dad wrote The Entrance," Meredith says.

I cough. "Not something I'm proud of."

"I'm sorry, what's The Entrance?" Valerie asks.

"It's that movie about the boy who helps deliver the baby girl in the elevator, and then he grows up to fall in love with her," Meredith says as Danny leans back in his chair and nabs her schedule. "But the day after their engagement, she's diagnosed with leukemia."

"Her father pushes her down the aisle in a wheelchair," I continue. "And then she dies on the honeymoon."

"Ugh," Valerie and Danny say together.

Enough embarrassment. "Where's Tucker?" I ask.

"He's a junior," Valerie says, as if I should have known this already. "We dropped him off at pre-calc."

"Oh." Our conversation hits a dead end. Lovely.

"Three classes together, Mer. Give us yours." Danny leans back again and steals my half sheet. "Ooo, beginning French."

"Told you. I'm probably going to be the only senior in a room full of freshman."

"It's not so bad." He hands back my schedule and smiles. "You'll be reading the breakfast menu without me before you know it."

Hmm, maybe I don't want to learn French. Ugh, shut up Sam! He has a girlfriend!

Argh! Boys turn girls into such idiots.

"Bonjour à tous." A woman wearing a bold turquoise dress strides in and smacks her coffee cup down on the podium. She's youngish, and she has the blondest hair I've ever seen on a teacher. "For the—" Her eyes scan the room until they land on me.

What? What did I do?

"For the singular person who doesn't know me, je m'appelle Professeur Cole." She gives an exaggerated curtsy, and the class laughs. They swivel around to stare.

I sink down in my chair. I hate being the center of attention, even for one second.

Suspicions confirmed. Out of the twenty-five people present—the entire senior class—I'm the only new student. This means my classmates have yet another advantage over me, because every one of them is familiar with the teachers. The school is so small that each subject is taught by the same professeur in all four grades.

I wonder what student left to vacate my position? Probably someone cooler than me. Someone with dreadlocks and pinup girl tattoos and connections in the music industry.

"I see the janitorial staff has ignored my wishes once again," Professeur Cole says. "Everyone up. You know the drill."

I don't, but I push my desk when everyone else starts pushing theirs. We arrange them in a big circle. It's odd to see all of my classmates at the same time. I take the opportunity to size them up. I don't think I stand out, but their jeans and shoes and backpacks are more expensive than mine. They look cleaner, shinier.

I know what you're thinking, but just because my dad makes money doesn't mean he likes to share with my mom. My mom is a high school biology teacher, which doesn't give us a lot of extra spending money. Dad pays for the mortgage and helps with the bills, but it's not enough, and Mom is too proud to ask for more. She says he'd refuse her anyway and just go buy another elliptical machine.

There may be some truth to that.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I like Professeur Cole, and my math teacher, Professeur Babineaux, is nice enough. He's Parisian, and he waggles his eyebrows and spits when he talks. To be fair, I don't think the spitting is a French thing. I think he just has a lisp. It's hard to tell with the accent.

After that, I have beginning French. Professeur Gillet turns out to be another Parisian. Figures. They always send in native speakers for foreign language classes. My Spanish teachers were always rolling their eyes and exclaiming, "¡Aye, dios mio!" whenever I raised my hand. They got frustrated when I couldn't grasp a concept that seemed obvious to them.

I stopped raising my hand.

As predicted, the class is a bunch of freshmen. And me. Oh, and one junior. He introduces himself enthusiastically as Dash, and I can tell he's as relieved as I am to not be the only upperclassman.

Maybe Dash is pretty cool after all, as cool as a popular jock can be to a reject goth.

At noon, I follow the stampede to the cafeteria. I avoid the main line and go straight to the counter with the choose-your-own fruit and bread, even though the pasta smells amazing. I'm such a wuss. I'd rather starve than try to order in French. "Oui, oui!" I'd say, pointing at random words on the chalkboard. Then Chef Handlebar would present me with something revolting, and I'd have to buy it out of shame. Of course I meant to order the roasted pigeon! Mmm! Just like Nanna's.

Meredith and her friends are lounging at the same table as this morning. I take a deep breath and join them. To my relief, no one looks surprised. Meredith asks Danny if he's seen his girlfriend yet. He relaxes into his chair. "No, but we're meeting tonight."

"Did you see her this summer? Have her classes started? What's she taking this semester?" She keeps asking questions about Ellie to which he gives short replies. Valerie and Tucker are making out—I can actually see tongue—gross-so I turn to my bread and grapes. How biblical of me.

The grapes are smaller than I'm used to, and the skin is slightly textured. Is that dirt? I dip my napkin in water and dab at the tiny purple globes. It helps, but they're still sort of rough. Hmm. Danny and Meredith stop talking. I glance up to find them staring at me in matching bemusement. "What?"

"Nothing," he says. "Continue your grape bath."

"They were dirty."

"Have you tried one?" she asks.

"No, they've still got these little mud flecks." I hold one up to show them. Danny plucks it from my fingers and pops it into his mouth. I'm hypnotized by his lips, his throat, as he swallows.

I hesitate. Would I rather have clean food or his good opinion?

He picks up another and smiles. "Open up."

I open up like an idiot.

The grape brushes my lower lip as he slides it in. It explodes in my mouth, and I'm so startled by the juice that I nearly spit it out. The flavor is intense, more like grape candy than actual fruit. To say I've tasted nothing like it before is an understatement. Meredith and Danny laugh. "Wait until you try them as wine," she says.

Danny twirls a forkful of pasta. "So. How was French class?"

The abrupt subject change makes me shudder. "Hell. Professeur Gillet is scary. She's all frown lines." I tear off a piece of baguette. The crust crackles, and the inside is light and springy. Oh, man. I shove another hunk into my mouth.

Meredith looks thoughtful. "She can be intimidating at first, but she's really nice once you get to know her."

"Mer is her star pupil," Danny says.

Valerie breaks apart from Tucker, who looks dazed by the fresh air. "She's taking advanced French and advanced Spanish," she adds.

"Maybe you can be my tutor," I say to Meredith. "I stink at foreign languages. The only reason this place overlooked my Spanish grades was because the head reads my father's dumb novels."

"How do you know?" she asks.

I roll my eyes. "She mentioned it once or twice in my phone interview." She kept asking questions about casting decisions for The Lighthouse. Like Dad has any say in that. Or like I care. She didn't realize my cinematic tastes are a bit more sophisticated.

"I'd like to learn Italian," Meredith says. "But they don't offer it here. I want to go to college in Rome next year. Or maybe London. I could study it there, too."

"What do you want to do?" I ask Danny. "Where are you going?"

Danny shrugs. It's slow and full-bodied, surprisingly French. The same shrug the waiter at the restaurant last night gave me when I asked if they served pizza. "Don't know. It depends, though I'd like to study space." He leans forward, like he's about to share a naughty secret. "I've always wanted to be one of those astronauts they interview on BBC or PBS specials."

Just like me! Sort of. "I want to be on the classic movies channel and discuss Hitchcock and Capra with Robert Osborne. He hosts most of their programs. I mean I know he's an old dude, but he's so freaking cool. He knows everything about film."

"Really?" He sounds genuinely interested.

"Danny's head is always in space and astronomy books the size of dictionaries," Meredith interrupts. "It's hard to get him out of his room."

"That's because Ellie's always in there," Valerie says drily.

"You're one to talk." He gestures toward Valerie. "Not to mention . . . Henri."

"Henri!" Meredith says, and she and Danny burst into laughter.

"One frigging afternoon, and you'll never let me forget it." Valerie glances at Tucker, who stabs his pasta.

"Who's Henri?" I trip over the pronunciation. En-ree.

"This tour guide on a field trip to Versailles sophomore year," Danny says. "Skinny little bugger, but Rashmi ditched us in the Hall of Mirrors and threw herself at him—"

"I did not!"

Meredith shakes her head. "They groped, like, all afternoon. Full public display."

"The whole school waited on the bus for two hours, because she forgot what time we were supposed to meet back," he says.

"It was NOT two hours—"

Meredith continues. "Professeur Hansen finally tracked her down behind some shrubbery in the formal gardens, and she had teeth marks all over her neck."

"Teeth marks!" Danny snorts.

Rashmi fumes. "Shut up, English Tongue."

"Huh?"

"English Tongue," she says. "That's what we all called you after your and Ellie's breathtaking display at the street fair last spring." Danny tries to protest, but he's laughing too hard. Meredith and Valerie continue jabbing back and forth, but . . . I'm lost again. I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

Oh, no.

I'm a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

Someday I'll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it'll be engraved with the words WORLD'S WORST KISSER. And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn't put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out. Everyone knows it

Oh God. Does Gregor think I'm a bad kisser?

It only happened once. My last night at the movie theater was also the last night before I left for France. It was slow, and we'd been alone in the lobby for most of the evening. Maybe because it was my final shift, maybe because we wouldn't see each other again for four months, maybe because it felt like a last chance—whatever the reason, we were reckless. We were brave. The flirting escalated all night long, and by the time we were told to go home, we couldn't walk away. We just kept . . . drawing out the conversation.

And then, finally, he said he would miss me.

And then, finally, he kissed me under the buzzing marquee.

And then I left.

"Sam? Are you all right?" someone asks.

The whole table is staring at me.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Not here. Not where they can see. " 's the bathroom?" The bathroom is my favorite excuse for any situation. No one ever inquires further once you mention it.

"The toilets are down the hall." Danny looks concerned but doesn't dare ask. He's probably afraid I'll talk about tampon absorbency or mention the dreaded P-word.

I spend the rest of lunch in a stall. I miss home so much that it physically hurts. My head throbs, my stomach is nauseous, and it's all so unfair. I never asked to be sent here. I had my own friends and my own inside jokes and my own stolen kisses. I wish my parents had offered me the choice: "Would you like to spend your senior year in Atlanta or Paris?"

Who knows? Maybe I would have picked Paris.

What my parents never considered is that I just wanted a choice.

**When I start adding Danny's ghost powers and what not, the story will be more my writing and less of Stephanie Perkins writing, the author of **_**Anna and the French Kiss**_**.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**To: Sam Manson sandmansions **_

_**From: Bridgette Saunderwick bridgesandwich **_

_**Subject: Don't look now but . . .**_

_**... the bottom right corner of your bed is untucked. HA! Made you look. Now stop smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Seriously. How's Le Academe du Fraunch? Any hotties I should know about? Speaking of, guess who's in my calc class? Drew! He dyed his hair black and got a lip ring. And he's totally callipygian (look it up, lazy ass). I sat with the usual at lunch, but it wasn't the same without you. Not to mention freaking Cherrie showed up. She kept flipping her hair around, and I swear I heard you humming that TRESemmé commercial. I'll gouge out my eyes with Sean's Darth Maul action figure if she sits with us every day. By the way, your mom hired me to babysit him after school, so I'd better go. Don't want him to die on my watch.**_

_**You suck. Come home.**_

_**Bridge**_

_**P.S. Tomorrow they're announcing section leaders in band. Wish me luck. If they give my spot to Kevin Quiggley, I'll gouge out HIS eyes with Darth Maul.**_

_Callipygian._ Having shapely buttocks. Nice one, Bridge.

My best friend is a word fiend. One of her most prized possessions is her OED, which she bought for practically nothing at a yard sale two years ago. The Oxford English Dictionary is a twenty-volume set that not only provides definitions of words but their histories as well. Bridge is always throwing big words into conversations, because she loves to watch people squirm and bluff their way around them. I learned a long time ago not to pretend to know what she was talking about. She'd call me on it every time.

So Bridgette collects words and, apparently, my life.

I can't believe Mom hired her to watch Sean. I know she's the best choice, since we were always watching him together, but still. It's weird she's there without me. And it's weird that she's talking to my mom while I'm stuck here on the other side of the world. Next she'll tell me she got a second job at the movie theater.

Speaking of, Gregor hasn't emailed me in two days. It's not like I expected him to write every day‚ or even every week, but . . . there was an undeniable something between us. I mean, we kissed. Will this thing—whatever it is—end now that I'm here?

His real name is Elliott, but he hates being called Elli, so he goes by Gregor instead. He has shocking blue eyes and wicked snow white hair. We're both left-handed, we both love the fake nacho cheese at the concession stand, and we're both goth. I've crushed on Toph since my first day on the job, when he stuck his head under the ICEE machine and guzzled it straight from the tap to make me laugh. He had Blue Raspberry Mouth for the rest of his shift.

Not many people can pull off blue teeth. But believe me, Gregor can.

I refresh my inbox—just in case—but nothing new appears. I've been planted in front of my computer for several hours, waiting for Bridge to get out of school. I'm glad she emailed me. For some reason, I wanted her to write first. Maybe because I wanted her to think I was so happy and busy that I didn't have time to talk. When, in reality, I'm sad and alone.

And hungry. My mini-fridge is empty.

I had dinner in the cafeteria but avoided the main food line again, stuffing myself with more bread, which only lasts so long. Maybe Danny will order breakfast for me again in the morning. Or Meredith; I bet she'd do it.

I reply to Bridge, telling her about my new sort-of-friends, the crazy cafeteria with restaurant-quality food, and the giant Panthéon down the road. Despite myself, I describe Danny, and mention how in physics he leaned over Meredith to borrow a pen from me, right when Professeur Wakefield was assigning lab partners. So the teacher thought he was sitting next to me, and now Danny is my lab partner for the WHOLE YEAR.

Which was the best thing that happened all day.

I also tell Bridge about the mysterious Life class, La Vie, because she and I spent the entire summer speculating. (Me: "I bet we'll debate the Big Bang and the Meaning of Life." Bridge: "Dude, they'll probably teach you breathing techniques and how to convert food into energy.") All we did today was sit quietly and work on homework.

What a pity.

I spent the period reading the first novel assigned for English. And, wow. If I hadn't realized I was in France yet, I do now. Because Like Water for Chocolate has sex in it. LOTS of sex. A woman's desire literally lights a building on fire, and then a soldier throws her naked body onto a horse, and they totally do it while galloping away. There's no way they would have let me read this back in the Bible Belt. The sexiest we ever got was The Scarlet Letter.

I must tell Bridge about this book.

It's almost midnight when I finish the email, but the hallway is still juniors and seniors have a lot of freedom because, supposedly, we're mature enough to handle it. I am, but I have serious doubts as to my guy across the hall already has a pyramid of beer bottles stacked outside his door because, in Paris, sixteen-year-olds are allowed to drink wine and beer. You have to be eighteen to get hard liquor.

Not that I haven't seen that around here, too.

I wonder if my mother had any idea it'd be legal for me to get wasted when she agreed to this. She looked pretty surprised when they mentioned it at the Life Skills Seminars, and I got a long lecture on responsibility that night at dinner. But I don't plan on getting drunk. I've always thought beer smells like urine.

There are a few part-timers who work the front desk, but only one live-in Résidence Director. His name is Mr. Lancer, and his apartment is on the first floor. He's also a guidance counselor at the school. SOAP must pay him a lot to live with us.

Mr. Lancer is in his forties, and he's fat and bald and always says famous literary books when he's surprised. He's a teacher that tries to be yip and fit in with the students, so not my favorite person. My parents loved him. He also has a bowl of condoms next to his door.

I wonder if my parents saw that.

The freshmen and sophomores are in another dormitory. They have to share rooms, and their floors are divided by sex, and they have tons of supervision. They also have enforced curfews. We don't. We just have to sign a log whenever we come and go at night so Mr. Lancer knows we're still alive. Yeah. I'm sure no one ever takes advantage of this high security.

I drag myself down the hall to use the bathroom. I take my place in line—there's always a line, even at midnight—behind Paulina, the girl who attacked Danny at breakfast. She smirks at my black faded jeans and my vintage Green Day shirt.

I didn't know she lived on my floor. Super.

We don't speak. I trace the floral pattern on the wallpaper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory halls a golden glow, but fluorescent bulbs hum inside our bedrooms. The floors are glossy hardwood but lined with industrial-grade rugs. Fresh flowers and Tiffany lamps grace the lobby, but the chairs are ratty love seats, and the tables are carved with initials and rude words.

"So you're the new _Brandon_," Paulina says.

"Excuse me?"

"Brandon. Number twenty-five. He was expelled from school last year; one of the teachers found _coke_ in his backpack." She looks me over again and frowns. "Where are you _from_, anyway?" But I know what she's really asking. She wants to know why they picked someone like me to take his place.

"Amity Park, Georgia."

"_Oh_," she says. As if that explains my complete and utter hick-ness. Screw her. It's one of the largest cities in America.

"So you and Danny seemed pretty _friendly_ at breakfast."

"Um." Is she threatened by me?

"I wouldn't get any ideas if I were you," she continues. "Not even you're pretty enough to steal him from his girlfriend. They've been together _forever_."

Was that a compliment? Or not? Her emphasizing thing is really getting on my nerves. (My _nerves_.)

Paulina gives a fake, bored yawn. "Interesting _hair_."

I touch it self-consciously. "Thanks. My friend dyed it." Bridge added the thick single strand to my black hair just last week. Normally, I keep the purple stripe tucked behind my right ear, but tonight it's back in a ponytail.

"Do you like it?" she asks. Universal bitch-speak for _I think it's hideous_.

I drop my hand. "Yeah. That's why I did it."

"You know, I wouldn't pull it back like that. You kinda look like a goth _skunk_."

"At least she doesn't reek like one." Valerie appears behind me. She'd been visiting Meredith; I'd heard their muffled voices through my walls. "Delightful perfume, Paulina. Use a little more next time. I don't know if they can smell you in London."

Paulina snarls. "Nice frizz."

"Good one," Valerie deadpans, but I notice she touched her untamed hair. She turns to me. "I live two floors up, room six-o-one, if you need anything. See you at breakfast."

So she doesn't dislike me! Or maybe she just hates Paulina more. Either way, I'm thankful, and I call goodbye to her retreating figure. She waves a hand and moves into the stairwell as Mr. Lancer comes out of it. He approaches us in his quiet, friendly manner.

"Going to bed soon, ladies?"

Paulina smiles sweetly. "Of course."

"Great. Did you have a nice first day, Sam?"

It's so peculiar how everyone here already knows my name. "Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Lancer."

He nods as if I've said something worth thinking about, and then says good night and moves on to the guys hanging out at the other end of the hallway.

"I hate it when he does that," Paulina says.

"Does what?"

"Check up on us. What an _asshole_." The bathroom door opens, and a tiny redhead maneuvers around Paulina, who just stands there like she's Queen of the Threshold. The girl must be a junior. I don't recognize her from the circle of desks in senior English. "God, did you fall in?" Amanda asks. The girl's pale skin turns pink.

"She was just using the restroom," I say.

Paulina sashays onto the tile, her fuzzy purple slippers slapping against her heels. She yanks the door shut. "Does it look like I care? Skunk Girl?"

Bitch

"Ghost!"

I whip my head in the direction of the scream and see a bundle of teenagers running towards the emergency exits.

Ghost? Oh great, I thought I would be rid of ghost in France.

I start running towards the crowd when two arms wrap around my torso. Then, I'm flying through the ceiling and out of the building, all while screaming.

"Shut it meat head, you should have ran faster. Now, you're my hostage" the metal ghost whispers in my ear.

"Meat head! Who the hell are you calling meat head u metal freakazoid!" I squirm in his arms, trying to get him to let go.

"Be still human, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what Skulker?" I turn my head to see the owner of the voice and there he was.

Floating at the same level as us was a white haired, green eyed teenager around my age. He had a black and white jump suit on with at D symbol with a P inside the D.

He was non-other then….drumroll please…Danny Phantom.

"Ah, just the teenage mutant I was looking for." The ghost, whose name I now know is Skulker, tightens his grip around my waist.

"Let her go Skulk, she has nothing to do with this. You want me, not her." Phantom growls.

"Let her go? Well, if u insist." Skulker put on a wicked smile, and before I could protest, his grip on me loosen and I was falling towards the street in front of the dorm room.

All I hear is my own scream. This is the end. This is how I'm going to die.

Goodbye cruel world.

….

Wait, I'm not falling anymore. I'm floating.

I look up and see the face of Phantom, his arms around me, carrying me to an alley nearby.

"Stay here." He whispers in my ear, places me on the ground, and flies away.

Obviously you can guess what a stubborn girl like me would do in a situation like this. I ran after him of course, I wanted a front row seat.

Phantom doges a blast from Skulker's gun and punches him in the face. While Skulker was holding his noise, Phantom pulls out what looks like a soap thermos and sucks Skulker

After his little victory dance, Phantom flies over to me.

"I told you to stay in the alley." I looks at me cross eyed.

"Funny, I don't remember giving you any authority to me." I glared at him back.

Instead of yelling at me, or getting angry, he started laughing.

Laugh. Hard.

"Should've know." He mumbles to himself.

"Excuses me?" I asks.

"Nothing, nothing at all." He smiles at me, and I give him a confused look.

"What are you, or any other ghost, doing in France anyway?"

"Don't you keep up on your ghost knowledge?"

Do I look like a ghost buster? "Um, no."

"Well, um" he looks at me questionably.

"Sam, I'm Sam."

"Well Sam, maybe you should. Do you need me to take you back to your room?"

"No thanks, it's literally a few feet away, I think I'll manage. But thanks for the rescue."

"Anytime miss, anytime." He gives me a mystical smile, like he knows something I don't, and disappears right before my eyes.

This school just keeps getting _better._

**Sam has a strand of purple hair on the right side of her face.**


	5. Chapter 5

To say I did my research on ghost after the run in with Danny Phantom is an understatement.

I freaking breathe that stuff.

I'm sitting at my desk researching Danny Phantom on google. I click on the first link and it says…

_July, 2013_

_The first sighting of Danny Phantom was May 30, 2013, since April 2013, both sightings in San Francisco. Danny Phantom, as well as other ghost, have been sighted mostly in the France area, and less in the American area, since 2010._

San Francisco? That's where Danny's from. Maybe I should ask him about it. And 2010? That was the year I started freshman year. What happen that year to make Phantom move to France?

And more importantly, why do I care?

********************************DS***************************************

One week into school, and I'm knee-deep in Fancy International Education.

Professeur Cole's syllabus is free of the usual Shakespeare and Steinbeck, and instead, we're focusing on translated works. Every morning she hosts the discussion of Like Water for Chocolate as if we were a book club and not some boring, required class.

So English is excellent.

On the other hand, my French teacher is clearly illiterate. How else to explain the fact that despite the name of our textbook—Level One French—Professeur Gillet insists on speaking in French only? She also calls on me a dozen times a day. I never know the answer.

Dash calls her Madame Guillotine. This is also excellent.

He's taken the class before, which is helpful but obviously not really helpful, as he failed it the first go-round. Dash has blond hair and is buff and plays football and basketball and is always wearing his Leatherman jacket. Several girls have a crush on him. He's also in my history class. I'm with the juniors, because the seniors take government, and I've already studied it. So I sit between Dash and Tucker.

Tucker is quiet and reserved in class, but outside of it, his sense of humor is similar to Danny's. It's easy to understand why they're such good friends. Meredith says they idolize each other, Tucker because of Danny's innate charisma, and Danny because Tucker is an astounding technology freak. I rarely see Tucker without his head staring at his PDA.

But the most notable aspect of my new education is the one that takes place outside of class. The one never mentioned in the glossy brochures. And that is this: attending boarding school is like living inside a high school. I can't get away. Even when I'm in my bedroom, my ears are blasted by pop music, fistfights over washing machines, and drunk dancing in the stairwell. Meredith claims it'll settle down once the novelty wears off for the juniors, but I'm not holding my breath.

However.

It's Friday night, and Résidence Lambert has cleared out. My classmates are hitting the bars, and I have peace for the first time. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I'm back home. Except for the opera. The Opera Diva sings most evenings at the restaurant across the street. For someone with such a huge voice, she's surprisingly small. She's also one of those people who shaves her eyebrows and draws them back on with a pencil. She looks like an extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Bridge calls as I'm watching Rushmore from the comfort of my mini-bed. It's the film that launched Wes Anderson. Wes is amazing, a true auteur involved in every aspect of production, with a trademark style recognizable in any frame—wistful and quirky, deadpan and dark. Rushmore is one of my favorites. It's about a guy named Max Fischer who is obsessed with, among many things, the private school that kicked him out. What would my life be like if I were as passionate about SOAP as Max is about Rushmore Academy? For starters, I probably wouldn't be alone in my bedroom covered in white pimple cream.

"Sammmmmmm," Bridge says. "I haaaaate themmmm."

She didn't get section leader in band. Which is bull, because everyone knows she's the most talented drummer in school. The percussion instructor gave it to Kevin Quiggley, because he thought the guys on the drumline wouldn't respect Bridge as a leader—because she's a girl.

Yeah, well, now they won't. Sexist pig.

So Bridge hates band and hates the instructor and hates Kevin, who is a twerp with a disproportionately large ego. "Just wait," I say. "Soon you'll be the next Meg White or Sheila E., and Kevin Quiggley will brag about how he knew you back when. And then when he approaches you after some big show, expecting special treatment and a backstage pass? You can sashay right past him without so much as a backward glance."

I hear the weary smile in her voice. "Why'd you move away again, Sandy?"

"Because my father is made of suck."

"The purest strain, dude."

We talk until three a.m., so I don't wake up until early afternoon. I scramble to get dressed before the cafeteria closes. It's only open for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays. It's quiet when I arrive, but Valerie and Tucker and Danny are seated at their usual table.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week, because I've avoided anything that requires ordering. I've made excuses ( "Nothing tastes better than bread," "Ravioli is overrated"), but I can't avoid it forever. Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath.

"Bonjour, uh . . . soup? Sopa? S'il vous plaît?"

"Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris?

"Ah! Soupe," he gently corrects.

"Sí, soupe. I mean, oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn. "And, um, the uh—salad-green thingy?"

Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. "Oui. You know, you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well."

My blush deepens. Of course he'd speak English in an American school. And I've been living on stupid pears and baguettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food.

"Merci," I say.

"De rien. You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can—

"NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, SAM?" Danny hollers from the other side of the cafeteria.

I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. Danny responds by grinning and flicks me off back, Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to Danny. "Thanks, because I llove the attention as it is."

"My pleasure. Always happy to educate." He's wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt.

I wonder if he slept at Ellie's. That's probably why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the métro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Valerie and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she's too good for them now.

"You know, Sam," Valerie says, "most Parisians understand don't have to be so shy."

Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out now.

Tucker puts his hands behind his head and tilts back his chair. "That's true," he says. "I barely speak a word, and I get by."

"That's not something I'd brag about." Valerie wrinkles her nose, and Tucker snaps forward in his chair to kiss it.

"Christ, there they go again." Danny scratches his head and looks away.

"Have they always been this bad?" I ask, lowering my voice.

"No. Last year they were worse."

"Yikes. Been together long, then?"

"Er, last winter?"

"That's quite a while."

He shrugs and I pause, debating whether I want to know the answer to my next question. Probably not, but I ask anyway. "How long have you and Ellie been dating?"

Danny thinks for a moment. "About a year now, I suppose." He takes a sip of coffee—everyone here seems to drink it—then slams down the cup with a loud CLUNK that startles Valerie and Tucker. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says. "Did that bother you?"

He turns to me and opens his black eyes wide in exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he's annoyed, he's beautiful. Comparing him to Gregor isn't even possible. Danny is a different kind of attractive, a different species altogether.

"Change of subject." He points a finger at me. "I thought southern belles were supposed to have southern accents."

I shake my head. "Only when I talk to my mom. Then it slips out because she has one. Most people in Amity don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly.

"Fo' shiz," he replies.

I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. Danny gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.

Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too—" I gasp. "Much."

"You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions."

"My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget."

"And mine was yesterday," he says.

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes. It was." He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.

"It's the truth," Tucker says. "I forgot, man. Happy belated birthday."

"It wasn't really your birthday, was it? You would've said something."

"I'm serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday." He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his empty tray. "My family isn't one for cakes and party hats."

"But you have to have cake on your birthday," I say. "It's the rules. It's the best part." I remember the Star Wars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Seany last summer. It was lime green and shaped like Yoda's head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.

"This is exactly why I never bring it up, you know."

"But you did something special last night, right? I mean, Ellie took you out?"

He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back down again without drinking. "My birthday is just another day. And I'm fine with that. I don't need the cake, I promise. Although my sister Jazz is coming to see my tomorrow to hang out."

"Okay, okay. Fine." I raise my hands in surrender. "I won't wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated happy Friday. And I would love to meet your sister."

"Oh, you can wish me happy Friday." He smiles again. "I have no objection to Fridays. And I'm sure she wants to meet you too. "

Wait, does that mean she knows about me? Does he talk about me?

"Speaking of," Valerie says to me. "Why didn't you go out with us last night?"

"I had plans. With my friend. Bridgette. And I've been doing some personal research."

All three of them stare, waiting for further explanation.

"Phone plans."

"But you've been out this week?" Danny asks. "You've actually left campus?"

"Sure." Because I have. To get to other parts of campus.

Danny raises his eyebrows. "You are such a liar."

"Let me get this straight." Tucker places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body. "You've been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?"

"I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower." From a distance.

"With your parents, brilliant. And your plans for tonight?" Danny asks. "Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower? And what personal research are you doing excually?"

"Hey. Scrubbing is underrated. And ghost research.

Danny turns strangely silent and Tucker busts out laughing.

Valerie furrows her brow. "What, why? Is it because of the ghost attack a few days ago? Please don't tell me you're turning into a crazy Phantom fan girl like Paulina."

"Do I look like someone who would turn into a fan girl? I mean he's cute and all, but still. And Phantom said something to me that made me wonder what little I know about what's going on. I mean, Amity Park is one of the most places spectral activities, or was until 3 years ago."

"Why do you care about it so much? Have you ever been attacked by a ghost other than the previous one?"

"Of course, everyone in Amity has, though me more than others I might add, and I have no idea why. But now I'm keen on finding out."

"Well maybe trouble is attracted to you."

"Maybe."

We were silent for a few minutes until Tucker cleared his throat. "So, he's cute huh?"

"Oh please Tucker, lots of people are cute. That doesn't mean I'm going to drop my pants for them. Plus, he's dead."

Danny's being strangely quiet.

"Well back to the other topic then. Let's go over the facts one more time," Tucker says. "This is your first weekend away from home?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental supervision?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?" He and Valerie exchange pitying glances. I look at Danny for help, but find him staring at me with his head tilted to the side nervously.

"What?" I ask, irritated. "Soup on my chin? Green bean between my teeth?"

Danny smiles to himself. "I like your stripe," he finally says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. "You have perfect hair."

**For the person who asked, Jazz is in college but will be showing herself soon and Tuck will be in here a reasonable amount.**

**Also, someone asked me if I can do a companion novel with Danny's point of view. If enough people start to review I might. Also, tell me if you want me to write one and if I should post it during 'Sam and the French Kiss' or after.**


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